


Better Together

by aurics



Series: Song Drabbles Collection [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Birthday Party, Fireworks, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 03:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7388413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurics/pseuds/aurics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred finds an alternative way to celebrate his birthday when Arthur is bedridden with a flu. He just has to act a little out of character, that's all.</p><p>(A little late, but happy birthday to the light of my life, the star of my heart, the champion of my affections, Alfred F. Jones.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Together

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song of the same name by Jack Johnson.

Being the proactive specimen of human being he is, Alfred already has visions of his next celebration on his twentieth birthday party. 

“I’m going — to — turn  _ legal  _ next year,” He sings this into Arthur’s ear, swaying to the music in an offbeat manner with his arm slung around Arthur’s waist. “Legal to drink.”

“That hasn’t exactly stopped you, dearest,” points out Arthur as he gestures towards Alfred’s cup, precariously filled to the brim with the punch Francis concocted for the party. As much as Arthur despises his friend, it is with some reluctance that he admits Francis makes some wicked beverage.

“And I’m throwin’ — a  _ hugeass, _ even-bigger-than-this-one party —”

“Even bigger?” Arthur rolls his eyes, which sends another bout of pain behind his eyes. He tries to chase away the ache with a few sips of his drink. “With all due respect, Alfred, I believe a bigger party would mean taking over the entire state."

“That’s the plan!” Alfred laughs, before dropping his voice an octave lower and speaking in a murmur, “And you, Kirkland, are the first person to be invited."

“I’m ecstatic, truly. There are only three hundred, and, sixty-five days to go!” Arthur makes a ticking noise with his tongue. “Time to start the countdown."

“Three — hundred — sixy-five, and a  _ quarter _ .” Alfred wags a finger in a mock-chiding motion, eliciting a snort out of Arthur and, just because the boy is irresistible, earns him an open-mouthed kiss.

“Mmm,” Arthur hums with a tug on his collar. Alfred eagerly reciprocates, pulling him closer by the waist. “You know, I was thinking —"

A loud shout can be heard, and someone — a friend of Alfred’s probably — calls out, “Your song is playing Al — oh, shit, come  _ on _ , dude, you can get laid later!"

He breaks away from the kiss with a loud smack and a grin, so charming Arthur temporarily forgets about the headache he’s sporting. 

“I’m coming!” whoops Alfred just as the beat of the music drops, and he breaks away from Arthur to join the throng of people dancing — squirming is a more fitting word — on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of Alfred’s mansion.

Although Arthur is not a stranger to parties by any means — his three years in university has constituted a fair share of wild nights, after all — he’s never been one for extravagance, especially not if it means spending the night bumping into more strangers than friends. But Alfred loves the idea of socialising over booze, good music and poorly-played games of beer pong. And after weeks of hearing Alfred begging Arthur to make an appearance at his party the latter had relented, intent on pleasing his boyfriend on his special day.

So Alfred ends up successfully convinces his parents to take a trip out of town, and had bribed (or blackmailed, Arthur will never really know) his brother Matthew to set the place up and help with damage prevention, because despite their rather privileged background the brothers are nothing short of disciplined. And despite the sudden raging headache plaguing Arthur, he has picked himself up well enough to go anyway.

“Hey.” Arthur jumps when a kiss is dropped on his neck, but he turns around to see Alfred pleasantly flushed, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. “I’m really glad you came. Thank you."

It’s as if Alfred can read Arthur’s mind, saying exactly what Arthur wants to hear. It takes every ounce of self-control for Arthur not to coo and pinch Alfred’s cheeks — the boy would probably not appreciate being treated like a baby on his big day. “Trust you to be sincere even when drunk,” laughs Arthur instead. He laces their fingers together. “Anything for you, my dear."

“So you wouldn’t mind another party like this one next year?”

“Bad question to ask when I’m not exactly sober. Not the most eloquent right now, see.” 

“We’ll be living together next year, we can get a decent apartment —”

“I hope by decent you mean reasonably-priced,” Arthur interjects with the best sharp look he can pull off. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred waves a hand dismissively.

“I’m serious, Alfred. I don’t want you to shoulder the burden of the rent all by yourself. It’s our place, so  _ we _ contribute. Both of us.”

“This isn’t about getting a place, Arthur.” Alfred sets his glass down for the first time that night, the one that says  _ Do Some Epic Shit Tonight!  _ “I want a bigger party next year.”

“You sound like a spoiled brat right now, Al,” Arthur says without venom. His vision starts to get hazy as he takes a courageous swig at his cup, emptying it, before he blurts out, “have you ever considered a party just for the two of us?”

“That’s not a party,” Alfred retorts without pause. “A party needs a crowd, and you know what they say, three’s a crowd, and all —”

“We can have Matthew with us, then.”

Alfred runs a hand through his hair, and smiles lopsidedly. “Sorry — Arthur, that’s not what I meant. But we can talk about this later, right? When we’re both sober?”

Arthur swallows the lump in his throat, feeling like he has somehow disappointed Alfred by not immediately agreeing to his impulsive, drunken wishes. He pours another full glass of the punch for himself and nods enthusiastically. 

“Good plan.”

  
  


*

 

It must be a recurring curse, because come the day before Alfred’s twenty-first birthday Arthur is bedridden with a cold that renders most of his senses useless.

“‘M sorry, Al,” he groans between the folds of blankets, barely audible. “I really can’t help. With the planning.”

“For god’s sake — don’t even  _ think  _ about me when you’re practically lying on your deathbed." Infamous for wearing his heart on his sleeves, Alfred’s face is now a mixture of concern and helpless frustration. He tries to peek into Arthur’s makeshift fort by lifting a corner of the blanket, only to feel his hand being weakly slapped away.

A glaring eye emerges from beneath a pillow. “Don’t you dare. You might get infected.”

“Your knowledge of biology is so skewed,” he sighs. “Look. I’ll run down and get some — I don’t know. Theraflu or something, yeah? And I can make some soup?”

“ _ No _ , not Theraflu,” Arthur says vehemently as highly embarrassing memories surface. He pauses. “But soup sounds heavenly.”

As he looks down fondly at his boyfriend, Alfred feels a surge of affection bubble up in his chest. Undeniably, Alfred has had a plethora of ideas to celebrate what he deems to be one of the most important birthdays of all time, the big 2-1 — and hence, deserving of an exorbitant festivity. Unbeknownst to Arthur, he has even taken the liberty of setting off fireworks two weeks prior to the date with some of his friends from various seminar groups; mainly Kiku, his most prized supplier of the explosives and Ivan, who helps him orchestrate their mini displays. Having his birthday coincide with the Independence Day means it takes very little effort to hype up everyone around him, so it’s no surprise that by the end of the two weeks Alfred is riding an adrenaline-filled high.

But all it takes is the sight of Arthur flushed with fever and the sound of his painful coughing to bring Alfred’s excitement down to ground level in an instant, and he knows a party is not on the agenda anytime soon.

“I love you,” he mutters into the sea of blankets, pecking it before he pads outside for a spot of grocery shopping.

  
  


*

 

“I don’t know, Kiku,” Alfred sighs dramatically into his carton cup of Americano. He’s feeling particularly patriotic today. “My dreams of throwing a legendary party is practically moot by now.”

“There is always next year,” replies Kiku patiently. “Age does not really matter. You’ve been drinking since you were in high school.”

Alfred snorts. “It’s the formality that counts!”

“Does that upset you?”

Every window shop outside is decked in decorations celebrating the Independence Day. Alfred gazes out at them a little wistfully, knowing fully well he can be completely selfish but not having the heart to do so.

“I still want to do something  _ with  _ Arthur, but you have to see what he’s like. Practically chained to the bed for the foreseeable future.”

Kiku smiles patiently, used to hearing Alfred’s complaints. “I understand very well, Alfred,” he says. “And what you’re asking for is not impossible.”

“But how can I spend my birthday with him when we can’t eat  _ dinner _ together?” He throws his hands up in a display of surrender. “It’s like the universe is trying to say I can’t have nice things once I turn twenty-one.”

“That is… an exaggeration.” Kiku sets down his mug of hot chocolate to lean in closer. “I have an idea that you may be able to execute.”

  
  


*

 

Having lived with Alfred for just over a year, and putting up with him for more than that, Arthur usually prides himself on being accustomed to loud noises. Unfortunately his cold has rendered his tolerance nonexistent, and the medicine he's been drinking has done little to soothe his muddled state of mind, so Arthur can’t help but groan loudly when he hears scrambling noises in the general direction of their balcony. 

“Al? Is that you?”

“Oh, uh, yeah! Just a second!” Arthur does not appreciate the stomping and stumbling that subsequently follows, but Alfred’s face is a display of pure jubilance that the complaint dies at the tip of Arthur’s tongue. “Do you need anything? Um, I’ve just put the soup on to boil, should be ready in a few.”

Arthur groans, this time for an entirely different reason. “I swear I don’t deserve you.”

“Yikes, you’re even sappier when you’ve got a blocked nose.”

“I wish that was all I had,” mourns Arthur, reaching out blindly for his box of tissues to stifle his coughing with. He feels a dip at the edge of his bed and looks up to see Alfred’s toothy grin.

“You’re so cute.”

“Go away,” Arthur complains, but he clutches at Alfred’s arm anyway. “I’ll go blind because of your smile.”

“Are you sure you’re not on Theraflu?” Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, I have something to show you.”

“Dear, as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, I really can’t get up.”

Alfred quickly springs up from the bed, waving his hands in front of him. “Oh no, don’t worry, you won’t have to do a thing —”

“I’m sure I don’t have the energy even for  _ that _ —”

“Oh my god, get your mind out of the gutter for one second, will ya?” Alfred huffs. “Just… watch the window.”

Before Arthur can complain, Alfred is running towards their small bedroom in an enthusiastic sprint, and Arthur just barely manages to muster enough energy to observe him reaching up towards the vicinity of the ceiling. 

“I know I’m kind of early,” Alfred calls out from outside the window. “But I want you to see it now.”

“What are you —” There’s the sound of a match striking, and Arthur stops short.

Spots of orange start to light up the otherwise dark balcony space. One by one branchy trails of sparks unravel, growing brighter and bigger as one, two, three more light up, and it takes a moment for Arthur to realise that they are indeed sparklers. Each stick has been strategically placed in various spots of the small outdoor space — hanging from the window frames, the railings, stuck in potted plants and even some taped to the roof to imitate stars. 

There must be at least two dozen sparklers on display, emitting a dreamy glow that collectively creates the illusion of daylight without being overwhelming. And Arthur is completely enchanted, unable to take his eyes off of such a display of simple, subtle beauty until there’s a dip at the edge of his bed — a sensation achingly familiar by now — and he feels compelled to wrap his arms around whatever part of Alfred he can reach.

“What do you think?” Alfred sounds nervous, but hopeful, eager even. 

“Do you really have to ask? It’s… gorgeous. And so unlike you,” Arthur points out, although it’s less of a cause for complaint than a statement of admiration. “And it’s… it’s not your usual birthday celebration.”

“Yeah, well, a bit of change is always nice, right?” Alfred shrugs. “I figured there’s no point celebrating anything without you. It wouldn’t feel right, and I thought it might be nice for us to be alone for once, just the two of us.”

“But you’ve  — you’ve always wanted a huge party for your twenty-first,” laments Arthur, suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt. “One that involves inviting the entire state. Because you’re free to drink now.”

“Hey, hey, that state thing was  _ your  _ idea!” Alfred laughs. He then pulls out a large bottle of champagne and a flute glass from a paper bag, an action so spontaneous it breaks Arthur out in a fresh peal of laughter. “And  _ drinking  _ is exactly what I’ll be doing tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be enjoying some of this baby alone.”

“Be my guest.” Arthur replies in delight. Everything goes quiet for a moment, and Arthur steals some time to marvel at the way Alfred’s eyes seem to sparkle brighter than the fireworks, face glowing as if lit from within by the most brilliant light; Arthur admires the maturity Alfred has found for himself; and most of all, the sincerity behind his every action.

“It’s not my birthday today,” Arthur whispers. “But I have to say, you are  — and will always be — the greatest gift I have ever received.”

“Trust you to be cheesy even in a state of medical inebriation,” teases Alfred, but his eyes have turned moist and Arthur knows the rosy colour on the high points of his cheeks has nothing to do with the champagne.

“Come here,” Arthur pats the vacant spot on the bed, and Alfred eagerly hops in. He settles further into the covers and pulls Arthur closer to him, so close until they’re snuggling in their shared warmth and Alfred starts to lose track of where he ends and Arthur starts. 

“This is the best birthday ever. I love you.”

“And I, you.”


End file.
